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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27886477">sublime</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sodapop27/pseuds/spookypop'>spookypop (sodapop27)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Depression, M/M, Oowada Mondo POV, POV Second Person, Short One Shot, Suicidal Thoughts, if you look at it that way, inspired by bastardbones, their fics are so good check them out</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:54:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>818</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27886477</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sodapop27/pseuds/spookypop</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>the music loops over and over again.</p><p>you wish you were dead.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ishimaru Kiyotaka/Oowada Mondo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>46</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>sublime</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastardbones/gifts">bastardbones</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>based off of my own experiences with depression.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The skies are an ugly shade of pale gray.</p><p>You're out there, on the balcony, with your umpteenth cigarette in your hand. It's still burning. The smoke's tang still lingers in your mouth. It feels like shit. It tastes like shit. You taste like shit. You <em>feel </em>like shit. There's not really much to see from your view on the balcony. Of course, there is, but the view of the sprawling, dirty city beneath you gets tiring after a while. You see a skinny dog walk down the sidewalk.</p><p>It reminds you of Chuck.</p><p>He's dead now.</p><p>Cars honk and beep throughout the city, driving at speeds that shouldn't be legal, but nobody really seems to care. There are car crashes all the time, and there's nobody to fix the wreckage. Dried blood litters the sidewalks. It crunches beneath your feet when you walk on it. There are tons of buildings, half of them unfinished, and half of them gleaming, reminding you of that one guy from school. Some uptight blond guy. You're glad you don't remember him all that much.</p><p>The whole color palette of the city beneath you reminds you of cookies n' cream ice cream, except the sky is just melted cookies n' cream sludge. Everything is flecked with soot and ash. Like everything is recovering from the apocalypse but stopped midway, and just stays in stasis for the rest of time, continually standing until they eventually crumble. You stand within the wreckage, and try your best to stay alive within the ruin.</p><p>Whatever. You're tired of constantly comparing things.</p><p>Ashnikko comes on on your iPod once more. Impulsively, you press loop, because hopefully, her droning tones lessen the feeling of emptiness spreading throughout your body. You don't know much English besides the lyrics of her songs. She used to make you feel empowered, feel good. But now you just feel... fuck, you don't know. You just feel. Feel your heartbeat pulse, and the blood flow through your veins, but that's pretty much it.</p><p>
  <em>i'm fine, sublime, like vines, i climb...</em>
</p><p>You wonder how fast it would take to reach the ground if you jump off the balcony.</p><p>How much blood would end up on the sidewalk? How many people would even care if you died? Would you even feel anything when you hit the concrete? Or would you feel immense pain, slowly bleeding out in indescribable agony? Would your bones crunch? Would your blood spill out?</p><p>It’s some kind of sick fascination you have with death. You want to hurt. You want to bleed. You need something, <em>something </em>to fill that empty void you have the gall to call Mondo Owada.</p><p>
  <em>into, your window, write my name in blood on your pillows...</em>
</p><p>Why doesn’t it hurt? Why don’t you feel bad? Do you even have the capacity to care, to love? Is that it? Is that all you have anymore? Why does anyone even love you-</p><p>A hand places itself on your shoulder.</p><p>”Mondo?”</p><p>Kiyotaka’s hand squeezed your shoulder. “Are you thinking about it again?”</p><p>“No.” You turn up your music.</p><p>Kiyotaka sternly but gently takes your earbuds out, along with the cigarette in your mouth. “Please come back inside, dear.”</p><p>You don’t respond, but you go inside your dingy apartment again. Kiyotaka pushes you down on the bed, and throws the cigarette in the trash. He places the iPod and the headphones on the nightstand, and goes into the kitchen. You can hear the fridge opening, and the sound of a lockbox clicking open.</p><p>Kiyotaka comes back inside with a couple of pills in his hand and a glass of cold water in the other. “Please take these.”</p><p>”I already took my fuckin' meds.”</p><p>”No, you didn’t.” Kiyotaka sees right through your lie. “Please take them, my love.”</p><p>You roll your eyes, but take the pills anyway, the water lubricating your dry throat. The pills go down easily after that.</p><p>Kiyotaka offers a bright smile, which really shouldn’t put a spark in your heart like it always fucking does. He sits down on the bed next to you, and rubs your back comfortingly.</p><p>Next thing you know, you’re sobbing into his chest, bawling uglily as Kiyotaka hugs you. Your hands fist the fabric of his shirt as you cry what’s left of your heart out. You wail, every single thought and emotion that you can still muster up spilling from your face. Kiyotaka doesn’t say anything other than “It’s okay” and “I’m here”.</p><p>”T-Taka-“</p><p>”Shh. It’s okay. Don’t worry.” Kiyotaka kisses you on the forehead, and you cry harder at that, staining his shirt with your tears.</p><p>He holds you, even after all your tears dry and you’re just left hiccuping into his sternum. He runs a hand through your hair lovingly.</p><p>Maybe you’ll pull through this. Maybe you won’t. But Kiyotaka will always be there.</p><p>Maybe you do feel something after all.</p>
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